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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277040">now i lay me down to sleep</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftersome/pseuds/aftersome'>aftersome</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, M/M, Patient!Hinata, doctor!atsumu, not to be weird but i hope this makes you cry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:21:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftersome/pseuds/aftersome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And yet… he’d rather have this, this ill-fated road, meeting Shoyo at the beginning of his descent, than not know him at all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>AtsuHina Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>now i lay me down to sleep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/arghkaashi/gifts">arghkaashi</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> It’s a bomb</em>, Atsumu thinks. He stares at his wristwatch, hearing it tick in the silence of the car. He looks out the window, watching the scenery as the car drives past. He knows this route by heart, knows where they’re going with his eyes closed. Hell, he can probably find his way here if someone had blindfolded him and spun him around until disorientation takes hold. He’s followed this route, drove past these groves of trees, walked this road, for half a decade. Probably more. He knows the place better than he knows himself.</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>The bomb on his wrist makes its presence known again, frustrated that Atsumu became lost in his thoughts. Eyes on me, it seems to say as it ticks away, counting the seconds with every movement of its thinnest hand. </p><p>Atsumu inhales deeply, eyes trained on his watch. He studies the tiny diamonds that encrusted the bezel of the watch, the golden hands that chased each other under the glass dome. The dial donning delicate golden traces of the hour markers, numbers that indicate the time.  A whisper of his reflection on the crystal: dyed blond undercut with the dark brown roots of his original hair color peeking from under the long curls, furrowed brows, anxious eyes, teeth sinking into the tissue of his lips. The watch is a gift from Shoyo. <em> A small gift of appreciation, </em> he’d said. <em> For the best doctor I’ve ever had. </em></p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>The watch isn’t much of a gift now. Time is a curse for Atsumu. And more so for Shoyo. A constant, nagging reminder that it will soon run out, that the hour glass will run out of sand to pour. And when it does, it will restart again and leave a part of it behind, where it will disappear in the wind. And life will go on, then. The world will spin on its axis, revolve around the sun, still, as if a cumulation of stardust and human atoms will not have found its way back into the depths of the universe.</p><p>
  <em> It won’t be long now. </em>
</p><p>Tick. Tick. </p><p>Rain has always followed Atsumu wherever he goes, like a dog would its owner. A planet that follows its orbit around the sun. It followed Atsumu when he went on a camping trip in Okinawa. It followed Atsumu when he traveled to Europe for research with his med school professor. It rained when Atsumu was born, his mother had told him, and it rained during her funeral; large drops of water from a weeping gray sky, his shoulder pressed against his brother’s, the smell of wet dirt and grass and mourning.</p><p>And it rains now, as Atsumu is being driven to the Hinata Residence for the thousandth time. Maybe the last. It rains as he steps out the car and into the house at six-thirty in the morning. It rains as he walks past the large glass windows that lined the hallways leading to Shoyo’s room. It rains as he knocks on the double doors even though he knows Shoyo is most likely asleep. It rains as he enters without waiting for a response.</p><p>His steps are slow and silent, the soles of his shoes pressed heavily against the carpeted floor. On the left wall, the air conditioner whirs, breathing cold air into the room. It hums along with the downpour outside, the way a choir would harmonize until they sound like one giant voice.</p><p>And his watch ticks on. He hears it even as he shoves his hands inside his pockets. It ticks and ticks until it starts ticking to the beat of his pulse. </p><p>Hinata is lying with his back to Atsumu. The steady rise and fall of chest tells Atsumu that he’s asleep. His hair is a tangled mess, but Atsumu knows it’ll right itself when he wakes. He’s gripping his blanket, wrapping it tightly around his body. He shudders once, then his breathing is back to normal again.</p><p>“Shoyo,” he calls gently. He places a hand on Shoyo’s shoulder. It’s warm. Of course. Shoyo is always warm, even when he’s sick. Even when it’s raining. Even if the air conditioner is on full blast. (Atsumu can’t help but think that in a day, he probably won’t be anymore.) “Shoyo,” he says again, but firmer this time. He gives Shoyo a little shake before retracting his hand.</p><p>There’s a groan coming from the other side of the bed. A shift in his sleep. He’s half awake now, Atsumu guesses, and on the brink of tipping over again into the tempting embrace of sleep.</p><p>Atsumu smiles a little. He sheds his coat, hanging it on his left arm. He tries again, “Sho-kun, it’s time for your medication.”</p><p>Finally, Shoyo turns, lips curling lazily. There are weights on his eyelids with the way he struggles to keep them open, and his throat thrums with a sound Atsumu doesn’t quite catch. He pulls his blanket closer. “G’morning,” he mumbles, the words coming out of his half- separated lips in a jumbled mess.</p><p>“Good morning, Sho-kun!” Atsumu says as cheerfully as he can manage, which is rather difficult as the ticking of his watch sounds louder in his head. Looming and imminent, like an oncoming train. He rummages through his bag, procuring six containers of Shoyo’s medicine and a syringe. He takes five of them and hands them to Shoyo, who accepts them in distaste.</p><p>“Why do I still have to take these?” he complains, but pops two of them in his mouth anyway, gratefully taking the glass of water Atsumu lifted from his bedside table. He’d take them all in one go, but Atsumu doesn’t allow him to, worried that he might choke. “I’m probably gonna die today anyway.” He says the last sentence to himself, quiet and scared and true, but Atsumu still hears it, freezing for a millisecond as if caught in an elaborate lie. </p><p>He pretends not to hear it anyway and picks up a new IV bag from his pack. He takes a pair of latex gloves and fits his hands inside. He disinfects the rubber port after taking off the plastic, closing the roller clamp of the previous administration and rolling it downwards. He folds the tube near the spike to prevent air from coming in and inserts the spike to the container, hanging the bag on the pole. By the time he’s finished, Shoyo has already downed his medication.</p><p>“What do you want to do?” <em> For your last day. </em>Atsumu doesn’t say it, but it hangs in the air,  as clear as a day without rain. His breath hitches as he studies Shoyo: the crinkle under his eyes that weren’t there before, the sighs he releases when he thinks Atsumu doesn’t notice, the anxious playing of his hands, the way he seems to sink further and further into the mattress of his bed and disappear under the sheets. Pain flares in his chest as he sees how tired Shoyo is; all pale lips and thin limbs. His once vibrant tangerine hair seems to have lost all luster, as if all the color he had in him had been sucked in by sickness. Atsumu doesn’t doubt that that’s probably what happened. Everyone always glowed less when ill.</p><p>But Hinata had always shone. He’s as bright as he is warm, even in the cold, even when sick. At least, that’s how he was supposed to be. Atsumu isn’t sure what happened to make him change.</p><p><em> It’s the call of death, </em> a part of his brain says. <em> He’s dying, and he knows it.  </em></p><p>Shoyo doesn’t answer, as if he hadn’t heard. His eyes are empty as he stares at the wall; slow blinks, even slow intakes of air. He winces at each inhale, as if it hurt to breathe. His head tilts sidewards as if it’s too heavy for him to carry. </p><p>“Shoyo?” he calls again.</p><p>“If I should die before the rest of you<em> , </em>” he recites, eyes glazed over and absent. Like he is here, but also somewhere else. “Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone / Nor, when I’m gone, speak in a Sunday voice / but be the usual selves that I have known.”</p><p>It’s a thing that he does. He claims to be unable to find words of his own, so he borrows other people’s words. From poems and essay lines to song lyrics and quotes from novels. </p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>The bomb starts to make its sound again, although Atsumu supposes he’s probably only hearing it in his head. Requisitioning. Blaring. The countdown to the end, where death greets at the 12 o’clock mark.</p><p>“Where’s that from?” Atsumu asks, grabbing the chair beside the table and sitting next to Shoyo’s bed. He ignores the ticking in his head. “A poem?”</p><p>Shoyo nods once. “Joyce Grenfell,” he says. Even his voice sounds tired and strained and distant. It’s almost as if he’s half the world away instead of inside his bedroom, on his bed, beside Atsumu. </p><p>“Is there something you want to do today?” Atsumu asks again. The whirring of the air conditioner is louder than the rain now, and instead of harmony, there is entropy. Where there once was an angelic choir, there is now a loud, musicless rattle — noisy and insistent, like a child throwing a tantrum. </p><p>“I want to go outside,” Shoyo decides. He looks at Atsumu, then at the dying rain outside. “I’ve never stood under the rain.” </p><p>Atsumu thinks he hears a twinge of excitement in Shoyo’s voice, but that just might be wishful thinking. He presses his lips together, unsure of how to proceed. “The rain might not be good for you,” he warns. He doesn’t have it in him to say no. Not to Shoyo. </p><p>“Nothing is ever good for me these days,” Shoyo says. “Nothing but medicine and my bed and this IV drip. And yet I’m gonna die anyway, even when I’m imprisoned under my covers. What’s the worst a little rain can do?”</p><p>He stares at Shoyo, who holds his gaze fiercely. He averts his gaze, gauging the light drizzle outside. Soon, Atsumu predicts, it will stop. He heaves a sigh. “Alright,” he says, and stands. “But let’s get youHis fingers envelop the width of the metal IV pole, before he rethinks it and looks at Shoyo with a questioning tilt of his head. “Do you want to hold onto this?” he offers.</p><p>Hinata takes it, tongue wetting his chapped lips. There’s a gleam in his eyes that Atsumu is now sure he isn’t imagining. He starts to sit up, then slowly, he lets the soles of his feet touch the carpeted floor of his bedroom. “It tickles,” he says as Atsumu fetches his slippers for him.</p><p>Shoyo Hinata is a rich man, and Atsumu knows he has a helper or two at his beck and call, but Atsumu doesn’t mind aiding him stand, even if he’s a doctor. If anything, he’d rather be the one assisting Shoyo outside than letting anyone else do it. He is thin and small for his age, the kind of smallness that makes him look older rather than young. He seems to age a hundred years everyday, and a hundred more each time he is put to bed when night falls. But even then he was energetic and bright. It’s only now that he seemed to have lost all that energy and brightness.</p><p>He can’t be blamed, of course. He is sick, after all.</p><p>Slowly, they walk out of Shoyo's room, steps quiet and light. The only sound that can be heard is the rolling of the IV pole's wheels on the floor. It takes a while for them to step out of the front doors, and by the time they do, the rain has completely stopped. The sun is starting to peek from the clouds. </p><p>There’s a little sound coming from Shoyo — like a sigh but not quite. “The rain has ceased<em> ,” </em>he says, “and in my room / The sunshine pours an airy flood / And on the church's dizzy vane / The ancient Cross is bathed in blood.” </p><p>Atsumu winces at the strain in his voice, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leads Shoyo to the middle of the courtyard. “All the world’s your stage,” he says quietly. “Have at it.”</p><p>A small smile tugs at the corner of Shoyo’s lips. “You want me to dance?” </p><p>Atsumu shrugs, starting to smile, too. The thought of Shoyo dancing — albeit not under the rain — seems ridiculous, in the way that Shoyo Hinata, sickly sweet Shoyo Hinata, does not dance, not once in the five years Atsumu has known him. “Do you want to?”</p><p>Shoyo’s face is this: one corner of his lips pulled up in a fond grin, eyebrows curled in the slightest, a sparkle in his eyes that seemed to gleam brighter than the rising sun. “Well,” he decides, “it’s hardly any good if I don’t have both a partner and music to accompany me, yes?”</p><p>Atsumu lets out a laugh. It’s loud and joyous and real. Shoyo’s smile widens at the sight of his genuine laughter. “Alright then, you smooth bastard,” he says. </p><p>Tick. Tick. </p><p>Atsumu hears it again, that ticking of the wrist watch that sounded less like a clock and more of the firm footsteps of death. He takes out his phone to play a song for them to dance to, and his mind is plagued with the inevitability of death, how it creeps behind you with silent surety and takes you with one quick swipe. A game over with no restarts.</p><p>He supposes he should have known what he was getting himself into, when he came to Shoyo’s aid half a decade ago. He took one look at his sickly form and knew right away that he wouldn’t live long enough to see himself growing old.</p><p>He stands and bends his body low in a chivalrous bow. He offers a hand to Shoyo. “May I have this dance, good sir?” he says in a fake posh voice.</p><p>“Are you even allowed to do this?” Shoyo jokes, taking Atsumu’s hand. “Is it ethical for a doctor to dance with his patient?” His hand is cold, but Atsumu can feel traces of warmth on his skin, like small candles on the verge of going out.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Atsumu murmurs. The top of Shoyo’s hair barely grazes his nose, and he catches a whiff of a sweet orange scent. Shoyo’s hand is bony, and he can feel the thinness as Shoyo places his other hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. “You’re alright.”</p><p>The sun is fully out now, but it’s the right amount of warmth, the kind you feel when you wrap a thick comforter around you inside a cold room, the kind you feel when the person you love wraps their arms around you in your sleep. It’s the kind of warmth that makes you feel less alone.</p><p>Atsumu feels heat in his chest. Feels the remnants of heat emanating from the tips of Shoyo’s fingers. Feels the reminder that soon this will all be gone in the blink of an eye.</p><p>And they dance. There, in the courtyard, shallow puddles of rainwater under their shoes, they sway to the music that comes out of Atsumu’s shitty phone. Shoyo laughs when Atsumu missteps and nearly crashes into the IV pole. Atsumu watches him with a smile.</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>Shoyo sighs contentedly, and the world sings with him. He leans closer to Atsumu, nearly putting his head on his chest. “<em> The life that I have is all that I have and the life that I have is yours, </em> ” he mumbles. “ <em> The love that I have of the life that I have is yours and yours and yours. </em>”</p><p>Atsumu feels his throat tighten, and when Shoyo stumbles onto his chest, he guides the other man to a nearby bench. “Easy, easy,” he says. Shoyo’s grip on his arms is tight, and Atsumu can’t help but think that perhaps Shoyo is holding on to more than his arm. “There you go.”</p><p>Shoyo coughs. “I wasn’t like this before,” he says. “I used to be a volleyball player. A national athlete.”</p><p>“I know,” Atsumu says. “I saw you on the TV a couple of times before. You were good.”</p><p>“I was, wasn’t I?” he says. There’s wistfulness in his voice, the kind of raw longing that would make anyone’s heart ache. “I haven’t played volleyball in years.” He sighs. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d never gotten sick.”  He shifts in his seat, playing with his hands. He inhales sharply, as if catching himself. “Sorry, you’re not a therapist. I didn’t mean to ramble.”</p><p>“I’m your friend,” Atsumu says. “You can talk to me, Shoyo.”</p><p>He casts a furtive glance at Atsumu, before going back to staring at his hands. He licks at his dry lips and inhales deeply, gathering as much air as he can inside his lungs, before coughing. “I’m not going to last long, I think,” he says. “I can feel it. There’s this gnawing darkness inside me that I can’t push away, and I know that once it reaches me, I’m gone.”</p><p>Atsumu has heard of dying people knowing that their end is near. They say that there’s this tugging at their guts, like an itch that never goes away until it’s scratched. It’s an inkling, they’d say, a heavy, nagging feeling that tells you you’re almost there.</p><p>“I know you can feel it, too,” he says quietly. “I’ll be gone before the next sun comes up.”</p><p><em> You don’t know that, </em> Atsumu wants to say. But he does. They do. And they both damn well know there’s no stopping it. </p><p>It’s a different kind of pain, too: knowing what’s coming but being unable to do anything to stop it. </p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>Atsumu forces a smile. “Well, I’d hate to see you waste the day away, then,” he says. Clearing his throat, he stands. “Is there something else you want to do?”</p><p>Shoyo notices that Atsumu didn’t even deny it. “Alright,” he says, standing up slowly. Atsumu takes note of his lower limbs quivering under his weight. “There’s this movie I’ve always wanted to see…”</p><p>“Okay,” Atsumu says, and he offers his elbow for Shoyo to hang on to. “Do you want to watch it in your room?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Shoyo says. He coughs twice, turning his head away, before gripping Atsumu’s elbow for support. </p><p>“Have you even eaten breakfast yet?” Atsumu asks, as he helps Shoyo back inside.</p><p>“I don’t want to eat anything.”</p><p>They walk slowly back inside, and Atsumu doesn't miss it when Shoyo winces ever so slightly or when his hold on Atsumu becomes a little too tight for his liking, but he doesn’t say anything. Carefully, he guides Shoyo back under his covers.</p><p>Shoyo reaches for the remote control on his bedside table and switches the TV on. He proceeds to choose the movie he wants to see, then pats the chair beside the bed. “Sit,” he tells Atsumu, tossing the remote control on the space beside him.</p><p>The movie is probably good, he thinks as he allows his mind to wander. He doesn’t mind, of course, to watch the movie Shoyo has always wanted to see, but it’s frankly quite hard to concentrate on a movie while sitting beside a patient who’s most likely dying today. </p><p>Even when the film is at its climax — loud, suspenseful music, characters yelling — all he can hear is the quiet breathing of Shoyo. It’s almost labored, he notes, eyeing Shoyo’s pale face and the beads of sweat running down his face.</p><p>“Does it hurt when you breathe?” he asks when the credits start rolling.</p><p>“A little,” Shoyo admits. He looks like he’s about to say something more, but he decides against it and instead smiles. “Is it time for lunch already?”</p><p>Atsumu glances at his wrist watch. For a few hours, he’d forgotten about the time, the ticking down of hours that would bring demise. Now his awareness of it is back, and stronger than ever, which isn’t really a good thing. “It’s a bit early,” he says, “but if you want to eat, I’m not stopping you. You haven’t had breakfast after all.” He stands and starts toward his duffel. “Let me change your IV bag first.”</p><p>Shoyo glances at his IV pole; he hadn’t noticed it’s already near empty. He’s silent as Atsumu replaces the old bag with a new one. </p><p>“I don’t want to eat,” he announces. “Okay, maybe just a small bite, but you definitely should have something.”</p><p>Atsumu quirks a smile. “Will you have lunch with me, then?” he asks, half-joking. </p><p>Shoyo lets out a laugh. It’s different from the others, Atsumu notes in his head. This one is airy and quiet, as if his voice had been taken away seconds before he opened his mouth to release a laugh. Atsumu briefly thinks about capturing this moment — a display of Shoyo’s genuine happiness, the sun in its pure brilliance — before deciding against it.</p><p>“Alright then, you smooth bastard,” Shoyo says, quoting Atsumu from a while ago.</p><p>“Touche,” says Atsumu. “It’s a date, then.”</p><p>Shoyo grins. Something about him seems brighter now, a stark contrast to his glum and bleak aura only a few hours ago. “Is it ethical for a doctor to go on a date with his patient?” he asks teasingly.</p><p>“Sweetheart,” Atsumu says, surprising Shoyo with the sudden nickname. “You worry too much.” He winks playfully.</p><p>Shoyo allows himself a shaky sigh. “Okay,” he says, and there’s an emotion in his eyes that Atsumu can’t read. His lips are sewed shut in a tight line, and he’s looking everywhere but Atsumu’s eyes.</p><p>He wants to ask Shoyo what’s wrong, but he figures a dying man deserves to be able to keep his last few thoughts a secret to himself. Instead, he says, “I’ll have the cook prepare something for us, then,” as if all is well.</p><p>They sit across each other in the dining hall, waiting for the cook to finish making their meal. They’re silent — there’s nothing to be said. Atsumu listens to the bustle of the cook and the help as they scuttle around the kitchen. </p><p>“I could get used to this,” Atsumu says finally, leaning back against his seat, “having someone else cook my food.”</p><p>“You don’t have your own cook?” Shoyo inquires.</p><p>“No,” Atsumu says. “I spend most of my time here, anyway.” Shoyo smirks. Atsumu wonders what could be so funny, so he asks, “What’s so funny?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Shoyo shrugs. He tries to make it come off as nonchalant, but he only makes himself look more suspicious. “I just think… okay, don’t laugh. It’s just that you’ve spent every day in the last five or so years in this house, taking care of me, keeping me company. Sometimes you even dine with me. Watch me for a bit while I sleep, before you go home— don’t give me that look; I know you do that. The maids tell me things.”</p><p>“And?” Atsumu prompts, ignoring the reddening of his ears.</p><p>Shoyo rubs at the nape of his neck. A somewhat boyish gesture. “You’re like my husband,” he says. There’s a hint of a smile on his face, as if he’s embarrassed but also pleased that he got to say it.</p><p>There’s a spike in Atsumu’s pulse, and the redness of his ears spreads to his cheeks. “Ah,” he says, because he’s good with words like that. He clears his throat and sits upright; Shoyo’s gaze on him is watchful. “I suppose it does come off like that,” he says. “Though I’ll have to admit, I don’t think I ever really minded.”</p><p>“Oh?” Shoyo leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlocked so he can rest his head where his hands meet. “Interesting,” he remarks. He tilts his head, so instead of his chin, his right cheek is pressed against his interlaced hands. “‘‘Your fellows have their intrigues and their passions, and now and again a clever play,’” he quotes, “‘but there’s none so intricate, so careful, so assured.’”</p><p>“Is this your way of telling me that there’s no one else like me?” Atsumu asks.</p><p>“It’s not my way,” Shoyo says, and Atsumu notices the lack of denial on his suggestion. “It’s someone else’s words.”</p><p>“Doesn’t make the sentiment any less yours,” he argues, but his face is soft. Like a worn shirt smoothed out with an iron to rid it of the wrinkles. He stretches his fingers so his knuckles crack. A yawn bubbles in his mouth, but he pushes it down.</p><p>Shoyo’s face is unreadable, almost blank, and to an inexperienced eye, he looks as if he’s dozing off with his eyes open. But Atsumu has known him for more or less five years, he knows Shoyo’s musing face, knows what every twitch of his eyebrow means. Knows what the pursing of his lips signifies. Sometimes, though, it’s like trying to read a book written in a foreign language that you only understand a few words of. He knows what Shoyo’s expression is trying to say, he just doesn’t know why<em> . </em></p><p>Shoyo Hinata is an enigma. At first glance, he seems easy to read: a sick, emotionally troubled man trying to make the most out of the life he has by being an eternal sunshine as best as he can. But as Atsumu gets to know him, he realizes a few things: Shoyo Hinata isn’t trying to be happy, he genuinely just is. And whenever he’s not, it shows. The <em> why </em> part of his sadness, though, is always unclear. Atsumu never found out what makes him sad, or what he’s thinking whenever he is. </p><p>And the thing is, his sadness never seemed to be about him being sick to the point of having to live the rest of his life waiting to die. (“Aren’t we all supposed to die, in the end?” he said once. “What makes this any different?”) </p><p>Now, however, Atsumu isn’t so sure.</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>Atsumu reaches a hand on the table — an invitation. He doesn’t know if Shoyo will even accept it, or if he even wants him to, but all he knows is that he wants Shoyo to know that his hand will always be there for Shoyo to fall back on. “Are you scared?” he asks quietly.</p><p>“Terrified,” Shoyo says. “I can feel it, racing up my skin until it reaches my nose and crawls into my lungs and forces me to stop breathing.” He inhales, wincing. “Does death have a scent? Because sometimes I think I can smell it — so close, Atsumu. So close.”</p><p>Atsumu knows there’s nothing he can say to make Shoyo feel better — what the hell do you even say to someone who’s dying? — but he tries anyway. “I’ll be here,” he says. “The entire time, I’ll be here.”</p><p>Shoyo lets loose a bitter laugh, throwing his head back, and Atsumu briefly thinks ‘<em>ah, here it comes,</em>’ before Shoyo says, “That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?” His face is red and his fists are clenched on the table.</p><p>It’s a miracle, Atsumu muses, that it took Shoyo this long to spit a resentful string of words towards him. Dying people often feel unexplainable anger — though, Atsumu ponders, unexplainable probably isn’t the right word to say; looming death usually is enough of an explanation, he finds — towards themselves, the people around them, and just the blatant unfairness of it all. Why me, why do I have to die, stop pitying me — it’s an anger that comes naturally and reasonably. It’s an anger that burns their brain to cinders as they slowly feel the life drain out of them. </p><p>“Of course,” Atsumu agrees. He knows Shoyo well enough to not be offended. “But I am also your friend. Even if you fired me right now, I’ll still be here for you.”</p><p>Shoyo swallows visibly, tight fists relaxing slowly. He licks his lips and looks away. “Sorry,” he says in a quiet murmur that Atsumu would have missed it if he isn’t listening so intently. “I didn’t mean to say that— I don't know what came over me.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Atsumu says kindly. “You don't have to hold your anger back. Let it out, if you must.” He grins, that silly, playful grin that always puts Shoyo at ease. “I can be your punching bag. I can take quite a lot, you know.”</p><p>Shoyo sits upright, horrified. “I would never—” he sputters, frantic. “I wouldn’t do that!”</p><p>Atsumu laughs loudly, a bellow that came directly from his stomach before escaping through his opened mouth. “That’s—” he struggles in between laughter, “that’s not what I meant, stupid! It’s a metaphor. I don’t actually mean that you have to punch me.”</p><p>“Oh,” Shoyo says, sheepish. “I see.”</p><p><em> Cute </em>, Atsumu thinks. The cook comes before Atsumu can say anything, so they leave it at that. “Thanks,” Atsumu says as she puts their respective dishes before them.</p><p>They eat in silence. Atsumu feels Shoyo’s eyes on him, as Shoyo picks at his food. There’s no malice in his stares, only careful observation and… curiosity?</p><p>“Food is meant to be eaten, you know,” Atsumu says without looking up. “And if you want to say something, just say it.” </p><p>“It's nothing,” Shoyo says with a dismissive wave. He brings chopsticks to his mouth, chewing slowly. </p><p>Atsumu looks at him, the curve of his brow burying itself further downwards. He doesn't say anything, though. Just lets the curiosity burn a path in his veins until they diminish into thin air. “I'm not pressuring you to tell me anything,” he says as he turns back to his food. “But I just want to remind you that if it's something related to your health, then you <em> have </em> to tell me.”</p><p>“I know, doc,” Shoyo says. His voice sounds tired. Strained. “I know.” Then he coughs into his hand, and Atsumu doesn't know what to feel as he watches Shoyo force a smile onto his face. “Is this an appropriate topic for a first date? I don't think so.” </p><p>Atsumu shrugs, allowing the tension in his shoulders to be released. “I wouldn't know,” he says with an easy smirk. “Like you said, I'm practically your husband; I don't have time for dates.” </p><p>“Oh, I'm sorry!” Shoyo exclaims. The genuine apologetic tone in his voice makes Atsumu want to curl into his own skin and slice his body in half. “I didn't know I got in the way of your love life.” </p><p>“No!” Atsumu protests. “That’s not what I meant!” He runs a hand through his hair, turning away. “I donʼt think Iʼd choose dating over you, anyway.” When his gaze turns back to Shoyo, his lips are curled into a boyish grin. “That’s called cheating, isn't it?” He scoffs. “Please, I would never cheat on my spouse.”</p><p>“I regret telling you about the husband thing,” Shoyo says with an exasperated sigh. “Because youʼre never gonna let me catch a break.” </p><p>“You know me so well,” Atsumu whispers, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead in a dramatic motion. </p><p>“How could I not?” Shoyo says with a roll of his eyes. “You've been the thorn in my side for more than half a decade.”</p><p>“<em> Iʼm </em>a thorn in your side?” Atsumu demands. </p><p>“<em> The </em> thorn in my side,” Shoyo says playfully, winking. “Youʼre the only one for me.”</p><p>“Sho-chan!” Atsumu whines. “Donʼt say things like that!” </p><p>Shoyo laughs. Atsumu looks at him carefully as he shoves his chopsticks into his mouth. Watches as he chews his food thoughtfully. Watches him. </p><p>“This house lived long before my time,” Shoyo says suddenly, putting down his utensils and pushing his plate away. Atsumu deflates at the action, but doesn't say anything. “Itʼs been a part of my family for centuries, I think. My sister doesnʼt like it, though. Thatʼs why she doesnʼt live here.” He coughs.</p><p>“Does she know you’re sick?” Atsumu asks. “I’ve never seen her here before.”</p><p>“No,” Shoyo says, shaking his head. He’s smiling fondly, eyes faraway, as if thinking of a memory.  “She’s a busy woman. Lives abroad. She’s a model. Still thinks I play for the Jackals.”</p><p>“You’ve never called her?” Atsumu asks incredulously. “Not even once in five years?”</p><p>“Oh, I do,” Shoyo says. “I just… don’t tell her about my condition.”</p><p>“And you’re not planning to tell her? Ever?” Atsumu hums disapprovingly.</p><p>“I know, I know,” Shoyo says exasperatedly. “I’m going to tell her today.” He murmurs something under his breath that sounds dangerously like ‘<em> since I’m going to die today, anyway, </em>’ which Atsumu pretends (again) not to hear.</p><p>“Alright,” Atsumu says. He pushes his finished plate away from him. “So,” he says, clapping his hands together, “the house.”</p><p>Shoyo’s mood brightens a bit — a small improvement, but still significant. “Right,” he says. </p><p>“I’ve never actually seen your house,” Atsumu admits. “I’ve only been in three rooms: the living room, yours, and the dining room.”</p><p>“Now, that’s a shame,” Shoyo says. “I should give you a tour now! Much to see, places to be.”</p><p>Atsumu hides a smile behind the napkin he uses to dab at his mouth. “Alright,” he announces, “be my tour guide for today.”</p><p>Shoyo starts to stand, but his brows start to furrow. He grips the arms of his chair, closing his eyes.</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>Quick as photons, Atsumu is immediately at his side. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you in pain?”</p><p>Shoyo nods, breathing shakily. “I can’t stand. Can you—? My wheelchair.”</p><p>“Right.” Atsumu looks over his shoulder and says to a maid, “Do you mind getting his wheelchair for me? Please?”</p><p>When Shoyo is finally able to settle properly onto the wheelchair, he looks up at Atsumu, a somewhat apologetic look on his face. “Sorry,” he says.</p><p>“Don’t be silly,” Atsumu says. The tone in his voice is fond, and one he doesn’t understand. “No need to apologize.”</p><p>“Right,” Shoyo says. His voice is angry and hurt. But this one is what Atsumu understands. “Because I’m the sick guy, and you’re the doctor.”</p><p>“You know I don’t mean it like that, Shoyo,” Atsumu says patiently. He understands the root of Shoyo’s anger, knows how to diffuse it. He understands the emotions that trouble his patients. And most of all, he understands Shoyo. </p><p>Shoyo rests both of his hands on either side of his head, massaging his temples. “I know, I know,” he says. “Sorry.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Atsumu says. With one hefty pull, he adjusts the wheelchair so it’s facing the right direction. “Let’s start the tour, shall we?” He starts to push. “Now, where to start?”</p><p>“The front door?” Shoyo suggests.</p><p>“Off we go, then.”</p><p>The Hinata Residence is a Gregorian mansion with modern touches, mostly Shoyo’s doing. The front double doors lead to a circular room with white pearl columns and staircases on either side — golden chandelier hung twenty feet up, shiny marble tiles, floor mural at the center of it all. Onward: the living room, or as Shoyo liked to call it, the holding area. A round carpet hogs most of the room, and on it are two couches, a single-seater, and a loveseat sofa — all white beige with gold accents. </p><p>“This one is from my cousin who passed away seven years ago.” Shoyo points to a painting behind the loveseat. “He never got to be the renowned painter he always wanted to be, but he wanted me to have something from him before he passed. He painted that on his last days.”</p><p>Shoyo goes on, explaining the history of his home. Atsumu learns that the room Shoyo is occupying now used to be a nursery, hence the carpeted floor. Apparently he moved from the master bedroom when he first found out about his condition. Something about not wanting to associate the room with bad memories for the next user once passed. </p><p>Most of the paintings, Shoyo had said, are either bought and given by the grandparents of his grandparents, who spent their ridiculous amount of money by collecting art, or are made personally by his other relatives. He also had other famous or just rich friends and acquaintances who often sent him gifts in the fame of vintage objects that cost a lot of money.</p><p>“Which,” he says with a laugh, “I’m unfortunately not interested in. But I keep them anyway because it’s the sentiment that counts.”</p><p>Shoyo even has a home theater: carpeted floors and walls to keep the sounds from the speakers from echoing in the large football field-sized chamber, unused popcorn machines in the snack bar at the left corner of the room, and of course, the biggest television screen that Atsumu has ever seen.</p><p>“I never use this, though,” Shoyo confesses. “I’m content with the TV I have in my room.”</p><p>“You filthy rich bastard,” Atsumu says.</p><p>“Well, there’s no denying it,” concedes Shoyo. “My parents had this installed, when they were still alive. And the TV wasn’t even this big! Natsu had it changed a few years before she moved out.” He sighs. “We used to go here every Sunday. It’s how we bonded, watching movies. Until my dad went away, followed by my mom, and well… you get the picture.”</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>Shoyo’s smile is warm, but it’s cracked at the edges, like an old picture with borders that are frayed. There’s a longing in his look, longing for his family, long for the past. Longing for what used to be his home, not this shell of a household that carried nothing more but memories, ghosts of a sunny childhood that had long since faded into dreams.</p><p>There’s a Welsh word for that, Atsumu thinks. <em> Hiraeth. </em>Homesickness or nostalgia. An earnest longing or desire, or a sense of regret. </p><p>“This song is for my mother / Let her hear me cry,” Shoyo says softly, “I couldn’t bring myself to write it / ‘Til this darkened day arrived / A song about old promises / Made so long ago / Created and cremated / Ashes of the words I spoke.”</p><p>The thing about dying people is that a rollercoaster of emotions will wash over them over the course of their terminal illness. They’ll feel angry and sad and impatient and self-deprecating. Sometimes happy, depending on the current circumstance. But most of all, they’ll feel an intense longing, one that will often comfort them as they slowly come into terms with how they will end.</p><p>“Do you know how to play the piano, Tsumu-chan?” Shoyo asks. His voice is low, and his speech is slow. His eyes are closed, as if his eyelids are too heavy to pry open.</p><p>Atsumu nods, hands still gripping the handles of Shoyo’s wheelchair. Then, after realizing that Shoyo can’t see him, he says, “Yeah. I do.”</p><p>“Let’s go to the music room, then,” Shoyo says. “Play me something nice.”</p><p>Atsumu doesn’t realize that it’s already four in the afternoon until he sees the tepid midday sun spill into the glass windows of the music room. Atsumu pushes the wheelchair and sets it by the windowsill, as per Shoyo’s request. “I’m a bit rusty,” he warns gently as he walks towards the grand piano, opening it and running his fingers along the keys.</p><p>“Serenade me, doc,” Shoyo teases lightly, voice almost fading, drowning.</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>“Just one song,” Atsumu says, “then we have to go back to your room so you can rest. I also need to change your IV.”</p><p>Shoyo only waves a hand in response.</p><p>Exhaling, Atsumu sits on the piano bench, clenching and unclenching his fists. Carefully, softly, as if caressing a child, he positions his fingers on the keys, feet on the pedals. And he starts playing.</p><p>It’s the first song his mom taught him, back when he was still a novice pianist. (Well, he isn’t exactly a professional now,  but he’s better than the average greenhorn.) It’s a song of birds singing sadly to the moon, of midnight strolls along the sea as the sun sets, seabreeze nipping at your skin, water embracing your toes. It’s a song of sentiments and calm, of love and the beauty of being alone as night starts to fall with starlight.</p><p>Atsumu imagines sitting at the edge of a cliff, peering at the rest of the world from above. Watching the light reflecting on the ripples of the sea. Shoyo by his side. It’s just them. And there’s a watch, but no endless ticking, no yelling at the back of his mind telling him that it will be all over soon. </p><p>His fingers dance on the keys — a delicate waltz. Feather light and kind. Soft, with emotion. The way a parent would kiss their sleeping baby as they hold it in their arms, just above the curve of their breast.</p><p>He feels the seabreeze, cool on his flesh, and he feels water and sand and earth. He feels Shoyo as he closes his eyes and thinks of a world where this isn’t how they meet: the sick patient and his private doctor. A world of endless paradise, perhaps, warm and sunny days in sunflower fields, singing with the wind, swaying with the grass. </p><p>He steps on the pedals, and the sun starts to sink. He ends the piece. Glances over his shoulder at Shoyo’s silhouette by the window. Stands, walks over. “Sho-chan,” he whispers. Not getting an answer, he kneels in front of him.</p><p>Shoyo’s eyes are closed.</p><p>Frantic, he puts his hand in front of Shoyo’s nose, hoping against all odds to feel his breath brush against the back of his hand. It’s an intense three seconds: Atsumu’s eyes shut tight, heart louder than his thoughts, teeth clamped on his bottom lip. Then, he feels it — the warmth touching his skin. It’s barely noticeable, a whisper, but it’s there.</p><p>He releases a relieved exhale. He allows a few moments for his heartbeat to settle, standing over Shoyo’s sleeping figure, hand over his chest. Then, carefully, he sets the wheelchair towards the direction of the open door and starts to push, closing the piano when he passes it. </p><p>Atsumu thinks that it’s oddly similar to a death march as he walks the long hallway to Shoyo’s room. He hums <em> Clair de Lune </em> as he closes the bedroom door. Slowly, he carries Shoyo out of the clutches of his wheelchair and sets him on the bed, tucking him back under the covers. He takes a new IV bag from his duffel and replaces Shoyo’s nearly empty one.</p><p>Turning his back to Shoyo to walk over to the closed curtains, he thinks of what life would be like after all this. He wonders what it would feel like to wake up at five in the morning out of habit, and instead of arriving at Shoyo’s thirty minutes past six, head over to a public hospital or someone else’s house, depending on which path he’ll choose to take. How would he be able to cope with knowing that one of his most treasured people is gone?</p><p>He opens the curtain, and the light of the setting sun enters through the transparent sliding door that leads to the balcony. A life without Shoyo… More than half a decade is too long a time for it not to be something significant. That’s more than five whole years of Shoyo Hinata, and that’s not something that can be forgotten so easily.</p><p>Half a decade, huh? Atsumu thinks as he stares at the orange sky outside — tangerine, like Shoyo’s hair, with streaks of white and blue. It’s kind of unreal to him that it’s only been five years, when it feels like he’s been by Shoyo’s side his whole life.</p><p>It’s a shame, really. If only he’d met Shoyo at an earlier time…</p><p>Ah, what ifs. So many what ifs and what-could-have-beens. How cruel life is to subject them to this kind of fate. Horrible, really. Absolutely evil.</p><p>And yet… he’d rather have this, this ill-fated road, meeting Shoyo at the beginning of his descent, than not know him at all.</p><p>“You’re still here.”</p><p>Atsumu turns and sees Shoyo sitting up slowly so his back is leaning against his headboard. He looks at Shoyo and sees a saint, the golden hour glow illuminating his face the way a halo would a head, hitting his skin just right, so it creates the illusion that the Shoyo luster Atsumu had grown accustomed to has made its appearance for the last time.</p><p>“Of course,” Atsumu says. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you, didn’t I?” He offers a smile. Shoyo doesn’t return it. His gaze is empty and listless. The clock ticks.</p><p>“If I make it through the night, will you still stay until the morning comes?” His voice is barely above a whisper, so soft Atsumu had to concentrate on his voice and his voice only — not the ticking of his watch, nor the raging beat of his heart, nor the vacancy in Shoyo’s eyes — to hear it.</p><p>“If that’s what you wish.”</p><p>“Sit next to me.”</p><p>Atsumu doesn’t move at first, Shoyo’s words echoing in his mind. He briefly thinks of Shoyo’s theater room and how the carpeted walls and floors absorb sound and keep it from bouncing off in resounding echoes. He decides that the walls of his brain aren’t carpeted. “Uh, yeah,” he says dumbly, moving robotically to sit beside Shoyo.</p><p>The mattress is soft and creases where he sits. Awkwardly, he puts an arm around Shoyo, not knowing where else to put it, hand on Shoyo’s shoulder. <em> He’s so small </em> , he thinks, <em> I could cry. </em></p><p>“Tell me a story,” Shoyo says, and his voice is so small, so fragile, Atsumu wonders if one cough could make it break. </p><p>Atsumu inhales before speaking. “I was in a bad place,” he says, “before I met you. I got kicked out by my parents because they found out I had a boyfriend. I spiraled. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. My brother was always there for me, of course, supporting me secretly because our parents would forbid him to talk to me. He even wanted to move out, but that meant giving up on the family business, and I know that all he wanted in life was to cook and manage Onigiri Miya.</p><p>“Then you called me. Hired me.” He smiles, letting out a snort-like laugh. “It was like seeing the light, so to say. I needed to keep myself busy, to avoid spiraling again, and I was about to quit my job at the local hospital, anyway.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “Turns out, that was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.”</p><p>“Even if I leave you in the end?” Shoyo asks quietly, barely above a whisper now. “Break your heart?”</p><p>“Even if you break my heart a million times, love,” Atsumu says, fingers finding solace in the strands of Shoyo’s hair. “Even if I have to come find you myself.”</p><p>“I believe you,” Shoyo says. Atsumu sees a glint of life in his eyes for a long moment — a brilliant supernova before the blackhole. He shuffles closer, pressing his side against Atsumu’s. “Now I lay me down to sleep,” he mumbles. “I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep / If I should die before I wake / I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.” He sighs, and Atsumu thinks there is sleepy contentment in his voice. “I’m going to close my eyes for a bit.”</p><p>“Rest well,” says Atsumu, and he braces himself for what is to come. “I’ll be here.”</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>It’s a bomb, he thinks. The endless ticking of his wristwatch filling the silence of the room as he holds Shoyo close. A clicking that seemed to amplify itself by the growing minute as he watches the sun finally bid its farewell. He thinks, in one desperate prayer, to all the gods out there — <em> Save him </em> , he pleads. <em> Let him stay awake. </em></p><p>Then he feels it: the gradual slowing of Shoyo's pulse until it comes to a complete stop, the way the rain did when Hinata said he wanted to go outside. Hand falling limp on his side. The life inside Shoyo slipping out of his grasp and dissipating into nothingness that’s as vacant as Shoyo’s eyes. (Or, it used to be, Atsumu corrects.) </p><p>The beginnings of a sob build in Atsumu's throat, but he can’t cry. What comes out, instead is a strangled noise that sounds like he’s drowning. And maybe he is.</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>There it is again. That goddamned bomb. Shaking, he glances at it. 6:29 p.m. The time of Shoyo’s death. </p><p><em> If I make it through the night, will you still stay until the morning comes? </em> Shoyo had said.</p><p>Atsumu laughs bitterly in his head. How fucking cruel. Shoyo didn’t even make it halfway into the first hour of the night.</p><p>Tick. Tick. </p><p>Time is also an evil thing: it tells you that something dreadful is coming, and when it passes, it doesn’t stop to let you mourn. When someone dies, the world won’t even know. People will mourn, yes, but the sun will not stop rising in the east. The moon will not stop pulling at the tides. Time does not stop. The world will still turn.</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>It’s a bomb. It has exploded.</p><p>Atsumu carefully extracts his arm from under Shoyo’s lifeless head. But he does not move away. Doesn’t leave him. He stays there, frozen in his grief, sitting in silence as the night darkens.</p><p>Funny how the orange of the sky at sunset seeps into the dark blue of the evening just as Shoyo fades out of life. Absolutely vile, life is. Cruel in all sense of the word.</p><p>He sits there, still and motionless. The ticking in his head has long since faded into silence now, but he sits there. Unmoving. Until the initial shock fades away, and the tears finally come.</p><p>He lets himself cry.</p>
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